


Ceremonious, Like Tombs

by sealdog



Category: Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, M/M, Piers Nivans Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 01:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealdog/pseuds/sealdog
Summary: Jake doesn’t devote a lot of energy to remembering details about military lunkheads, especially not ones who are way too fucking talkative and annoying to boot, but he’s pretty damn certain that the last time they’d met, the lunkhead in question had had two human arms, as well as two matching eyes.
---
Jake, free alcohol, and Piers in a coatroom. Sexytimes ensue.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kashuan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kashuan/gifts).



> ty @ledgem for the beta and for not ungluing my hand from urs :~)
> 
> done for a prompt by @kashuan on tumblr, sry its so late bb! hope the blowjobs make up for it ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

It takes about ten minutes for Sherry to get called away to talk to some fancy minister or other, leaving Jake to snort at the apologetic “Sorry!” she throws over her shoulder as she’s led off to schmooze and shit. Which Jake’s not too fussed about, because honestly, he’d seen it coming when she’d first invited him, so now Sherry owes him ten bucks.

More importantly, this event has an open bar that he very much intends to take advantage of. It would’ve been more fun to empty the bar out with Sherry, but well, no harm getting started without her.

“Jack Daniels, your most expensive one,” he tells the snooty-looking bartender, glaring right back when the bartender gives him a suspicious once over. Whatever misgivings the bartender might have had are quickly smoothed away behind a professional façade however, and she sets a glass out on the bar-counter and pulls out a bottle of sweet, free alcohol. Just to be contrary, Jake waits till the bartender’s uncapped the bottle before reaching out and taking it right from her grasp. “Thanks,” he says, flashing his toothiest grin at her.

Turning, he takes a swig of the bottle, and surveys the huge conference room they’re in. Military people, suits, military people _in_ suits, and the entire place reeking of wealth and smugness and self-congratulatory pride

What a bunch of assholes.

Letting a disgusted noise slip out, and enjoying the reproving glances thrown his way in response, he heads off to find somewhere he can actually sit down and enjoy his drink without being assaulted by overpriced cologne or the sounds of fake, genteel laughter.

He contemplates hiding out in one of the fancy marble bathrooms off to the side of the hall, but that treads dangerously close to being pathetic, so he heads off to the coat-room at the entrance, figuring that now the party’s all started, the room would be nice and empty for the next hour or so. Hopefully. You never knew with these rich types.

He’d been expecting to charm or argue his way past the coat-check attendant, but to his surprise, the person sitting at the booth isn’t the attendant from before, but a familiar face.

“You!” Chris’ little puppy sidekick, looking rather different out of his military digs, sits up and stares at Jake. “What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

“Could ask you the same question myself,” Jake says, shoving the half-door open and pushing past…what was his name again? Christ, he’s pretty sure Sherry’s mentioned it before, at some point. Probably.

“I—” The stool the soldier’s on squeaks as he turns, presumably to keep glaring at Jake as he goes further into the coatroom. “Did you steal that bottle?”

“Hey. It’s a free bar, ain’t it?” Jake fishes out a couple of comfortable looking coats from the racks they’re hanging on, and tosses them into a corner to form a makeshift lounge. Easing himself down onto it, he turns his attention fully to the other man, only to bite back an exclamation.

Jake doesn’t devote a lot of energy to remembering details about military lunkheads, especially not ones who are way too fucking talkative and annoying to boot, but he’s pretty damn certain that the last time they’d met, the lunkhead in question had had two human arms, as well as two matching eyes.

The eye-catching arm in question lifts, waving awkwardly. “Guess you noticed, huh.” A shadow of something that might be resignation crosses the other man’s eyes. Both the normal brown one, and the…strange one.

Something about that resigned look pisses Jake off, for some reason.

“Yeah? Hard not to, with you waving it in my face like that,” he says, and takes a swig of the bottle, watching as the annoying resignation changes to confusion, and then anger. There, much better. “Look, asshole, whatever your name is. I’m just here for the free drinks, and to get some peace and quiet away from all that—” he waves the bottle around vaguely “—bullshit going on in there. I don’t care if you’ve grown a tail and started tapdancing in the circus, either you man up and join me, or you can fuck right off and leave me the hell alone, got it?”

The anger holds for a second or two, and then it dissolves into something that might be relief. Jake doesn’t particularly give a shit.

“The name’s Piers. And I’m _not_ sharing that with you.” Piers reaches behind himself with his normal hand and brings out a bottle of clear, amber liquid. Unexpected, but refreshing.

“Halle-fucking-lujah, the boy scout isn’t so saintly after all. I’ll drink to that.” Jake raises his bottle.

Piers stays where he is, but raises his own bottle and takes a long swig, not even grimacing at the taste. Okay, _really_ unexpected, especially with that prissy looking scarf thing he’s got going on, but Jake’s definitely not complaining.

They sit there like that, taking swigs out of their respective bottles and not making eye contact as the sounds of the party ebb and flow, muted through the corridors and doors that insulate the coat-room from the main hall.

Jake makes a feeble effort to not stare too obviously at the arm, but it’s hard. The sleeve of Piers’ formal uniform (tch, _predictable_ ) has been neatly cut and folded away to make room for the swollen, distorted, angry looking flesh of his arm. There are places where it looks like some kind of bone formation has ripped through the flesh, only to be sawed back down, leaving painful looking islands of bone in otherwise red, scaly looking skin. The overall effect is…disconcerting, to say the least.

“Not gonna ask about it?” Piers says eventually, proving that despite his new arm, he’s still as annoying and mouthy as ever.

Jake sneers, and makes deliberate eye contact. “If I was gonna ask, I’d have asked.”

Piers gives him an odd look, before visibly shrugging off whatever no doubt stupid question he’d been about to say to instead down the rest of his bottle. Jake can only watch in begrudging admiration. The way he’s flung his head back to drink seems almost defiant, and Jake…Jake can respect defiance. Also, turns out lunkhead’s actually got a pretty nice neck hidden beneath those scarves, who knew?

“Surprised you’re not wearing your stupid scarf.” It slips out of Jake’s mouth before he realizes, and he scowls down at the bottle in his hand, then shrugs and takes another swig.

Piers blinks at him, normal arm coming up to tug at the tie he’s got on. “I don’t always wear a scarf,” he says, sounding confused. “And it wouldn’t go with my uniform.”

“Sure,” Jake snorts.

An awkward silence falls, interrupted only by the intermittent clunk of Jake’s bottle as he sets it down on the floor after every swig. Across the coat-room, Piers sits, hunched in on himself and fiddling with the empty bottle in his hands. Or rather, his normal hand does most of the fiddling. His other hand lies in his lap, supporting the bottle. Jake knows he probably shouldn’t be staring, but between the alcohol, and the itching curiosity to know what the fuck happened after he and Sherry left the underwater facility, he can’t take his eyes off the sight.

As he watches, the hand twitches, curls in on itself a bit, and when Jake looks up, Piers is watching him with that dumbass resigned expression again. It makes Jake uncomfortable, and the feeling only gets worse when Piers looks away, hands stilling.

“Hey,” Jake says, and then pauses. He doesn’t actually know what to say here; it feels like it would be mean to fall back on habit and make a snide remark, but no way Jake’s gonna _apologize_ or anything like that. He settles on “Wanna help me finish this, and then we can go get more from the bar?”

In response, Piers straightens up a bit, the resigned expression fading. “Sure,” he says, setting his own bottle down on the floor carefully. “Toss it over.” He beckons with his left hand.

Jake looks down at the bottle in his hand, and weighs his options carefully, thoughts moving more sluggishly than normal and making it hard to stay on track. “Pretty sure if I tried to throw this it’d end up smashing on the floor, and that’d be a damn waste of fine, free alcohol.”

At Piers’ snort, Jake grunts, and moves to stand up so he can pass the bottle over. And then he moves right back into a sitting position, staring down at his limbs with a faint sense of betrayal. Maybe the shots he’d taken before meeting up with Sherry had been a bad idea. And the tequila. And then the second round of shots after that.

“Shut up.” He points the mouth of the bottle at Piers, and scowls. “Get your ass over here, dumbass.”

Piers stands up from his chair, annoyingly steady as he moves across the room to sit cross-legged in front of Jake.

“What are you doing all the way over there?” Jake raps with his knuckles at the wall he’s leaning on. “I know you got a stick up your ass or something, but for chrissake, get over here before I get a backache looking at you.”

Piers doesn’t move for a long second, and then he does, without saying a further word, _thank fuck_.

Jake doesn’t fail to notice that Piers is careful to sit on Jake’s right side.

“That’s the spirit,” Jake says, handing the bottle over. “Loosen up a bit, eh?”

Piers make a face, but takes the bottle and drinks from it readily enough. They sit there in silence, passing the bottle between them.

The burning liquid seeps through Jake’s body, working with the alcohol from before to loosen his spine, help him forget that the only reason why he’s here is because the event is supposed to be a commemoration of the Lanshiang incident and the anniversary of the release of the C-Virus’ antidote to the general public. He lifts up the hand that’s been resting on his knee, and makes it into a fist, watching the way the scarred skin and rough knuckles move, and remembering all the blood and other crap they’d taken out of him to make it.

“I heard you helped,” Piers speaks up, clearly eyeing the marks on Jake’s hand. Jake lets his hand drop back down, grunting in irritation. Of course the guy wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut for long. “It was…very kind of you.”

Jake snorts. “Yeah? Don’t kid yourself, I did it for the money.”

Piers hands the bottle back over with a contemplative hum. “Sherry did say something about a deal between the two of you.”

Jake thinks he should be worried about that, that Sherry is apparently in contact with annoying BSAA lackeys, but between the alcohol and the weirdly warm body of said BSAA lackey pressed next to him, he can’t bring himself to muster up the worry or anger. Instead, what comes out is “How’s your captain?”

That was clearly the wrong thing to say, because Piers stiffens, and moves slightly away from Jake.

“He’s not my captain anymore,” Piers finally says, voice tight, not looking at Jake. He continues, a little quieter. “They took me off active duty, because of the, you know.” He doesn’t elaborate. Not that he needs to.

Jake hands the bottle over in a silent apology, which Piers takes. It’s beginning to run out though, and he wonders if maybe they should go get that third bottle from the bar.

“Finish it up, let’s get another.” As though reading his mind, Piers passes the bottle back to Jake, and moves to stand up, still annoyingly steady.

Jake raises the bottle in a toast, and downs the rest of it before dropping it onto the floor, ignoring Piers’ wince. He pushes himself up, or tries to, because either there was something extra in the tequila from earlier, or he’d _really_ underestimated how many shots he’d taken.

Instead, he finds himself falling heavily against Piers, who stumbles a bit at the unexpected weight, and they both go down in a tumble.

“Jesus, _fuck_ -”

“Shit!”

Groaning, Jake blinks away the dizziness, only to realize he’s lying on top of Piers, which can’t be comfortable, going by the way Piers is wheezing a bit. Although that might have more to do with Jake’s elbow in his stomach.

“Fuck, sorry—” Jake rolls off him, and collapses to the side. “Okay, maybe another bottle can wait a bit.”

“How much did you even _drink_ ,” Piers says, sounding more curious than judgmental.

“I dunno. A lot?” Jake pushes himself up onto his elbows with some effort, and turns to stare down at Piers, who doesn’t notice, too busy rubbing at his stomach with his left hand.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it's the fact that lying on the floor looking disheveled is a surprisingly good look on Piers, or maybe it’s because of the way his bare neck looks, or maybe- Jake glances down at Piers’ right hand, held carefully away from his own body.

“What?” Piers asks, and when Jake looks back up, Piers is now watching him with a narrowed gaze.

His eyelashes are disconcertingly thick.

“Nothing,” Jake says, turning away.

“You know, you can always just ask.”

Jake shrugs. “Not my business.” He knows its stupid, but he’s not about to ask, even though his eyes keep flicking towards it.

“It used to be worse,” Piers says, ignoring Jake’s words. He brings his hand up to rest on his chest, showing the back of his arm, and where most of the painful looking, shaved-down bone growths are. “Was nearly twice the size, before. The C-Virus antidote helped a lot with it. So really, thanks.” He flicks a gaze over at Jake, from beneath those ridiculous eyelashes of his.

Jake grunts, not sure how to respond. “Does it hurt?” he offers instead.

“Yeah.” Piers says, bitterness creeping into his voice. “You get used to it though. At least I still have some sensation in it.”

Jake reaches out, slow enough that Piers could stop him if he wanted, and runs two fingers down the length of Piers’ forearm. “That?”

“Yeah,” Piers says, arm twitching beneath Jake’s fingers even as his eyes are fixed on them, and he seems to have stopped breathing.

“What about this?” Jake says, moving his fingers the other way, not stopping at Piers’ elbow, but moving up his upper arm. He has to lean forward to reach, which means he’s leaning above Piers, who’s now watching Jake’s face with something a little like desperation and hope in his eyes.

It’s a good look on him.

“Yeah,” Piers breathes out. His eyes- this close, Jake can see the faint webbing of old scars slashing diagonally across his face, and how the iris of his right eye has faded to a pale grey. His eyes dart between Jake’s, and then they flick down, to Jake’s mouth, and before he can stop himself, Jake’s bending down that last few inches to kiss him, hand moving to grasp Piers’ arm.

Piers tastes like alcohol, which isn’t a surprise, but also like pineapples, which is.

“Where’d you get pineapples from?” Jake pulls away to ask, cataloguing the way Piers’ pupils have expanded differently, the way his scarred skin is rough beneath Jake’s hand.

“Pineapple flavored vodka,” Piers answers, as he uses his left hand to pull Jake back down into another kiss, demanding and pushy and annoying as ever.

Jake mumbles his “What the fuck” into Piers’ pineapple-y mouth, and digs his fingers into the scarred skin of Piers’ arm, savors the way it makes him whimper and jerk up against Jake.

“Harder,” Piers gasps, arm tensing against Jake’s grip. “Touch me.”

And Jake does.

For all his mercenary work, Jake doesn’t really have all that many scars. Most of them are small, lines to mark where knives had come too close, or where bullets had grazed and not hit. Some are larger, raised and circular where he’d had to dig bullets out. The largest is a burn scar on his right thigh, about a handspan wide, where the skin is hairless and unnaturally smooth and cracks in cold weather if he doesn’t pay attention to it. What sensation he has there is muted; mostly he feels pressure, and little else. 

The texture of Piers’ arm feels like something similar, albeit more like it goes through his entire arm and isn’t just on the surface, and Jake wonders what exactly Piers meant by “some sensation”, because when he tightens his hand around Piers’ wrist, hard enough that most people would get bruised, Piers makes a muffled moan into Jake’s neck, panting raggedly. Then it occurs to Jake that perhaps it’s just the sensation of being touched there by a hand other than Piers’ own, and some mix of pity and anger flashes through him.

The unexpected pity, he pushes aside to deal with later. Anger, however, he can work with. Anger, and lust.

He pulls Piers’ hand up, making sure not to yank too suddenly, but also not letting up either, and keeps eye contact with Piers as he takes Piers’ other hand, pulls it up to join the first, until Piers is lying with his hands crossed above his head.

“D’you do blowjobs?” Jake asks, hearing how rough his own voice is.

At Piers’ enthusiastic nod, he moves to straddle Piers’ chest, one hand keeping Piers’ hands crossed above his head, and the other fumbling at the fancy suit trousers Sherry had made him get. They take a while to get undone, and Piers squirms beneath him eagerly the entire time, looking up at Jake from beneath his stupidly long eyelashes. When Jake pulls his dick out, Piers makes a longing sound, and Jake has to stifle back a laugh at how eager he looks. Just like the puppy Jake had called him, all those months ago.

He raises himself up, putting more of his weight on his grip on Piers’ wrists, and doesn’t miss the way it makes Piers shiver. His other hand goes to grab his dick, position it at Piers’ mouth.

“Make it without any teeth, and I’ll return the favor,” Jake promises, and holds back a laugh at Piers’ eyeroll.

“Who’s the one who can’t shut up now?” Piers says, but there’s no heat in his words. There is, however, heat in his gaze as he stares up at Jake challengingly. “Bet you my gun I can get you off faster.”

“Your rifle? Done,” Jake says instantly. It’s win-win, really. Actually, there’s really no loss for Jake here, which makes him suspect Piers is either really overconfident, or, well, Jake’s in for one hell of a blowjob.

“Get on with it then,” Piers says, but Jake doesn’t take orders from anybody, let alone a BSAA stooge, no matter how pretty, so he doesn’t.

He moves his hips forwards slowly, experimentally, and jerks back, startled, when Piers licks out, tongue unexpected and hot on the head of his dick. Scowling at Piers’ laugh, Jake moves back into place, using the hand on his dick to slide his cockhead against Piers’ lips, watching Piers turn his head and crane to try and catch it before shooting Jake an irritated glare.

Snickering at Piers’ exasperation, Jake eventually gives in, and pushes forwards. Piers’ mouth is hot, hotter than expected, and there’s absolutely no hint of teeth as he leans up and starts sucking in earnest. He’s good, Jake admits grudgingly, using his tongue to play with the tip and pulling off to mouth at the rest of Jake’s length, licking it up and down before going back to bobbing up and down, sloppy, wet noises punctuating the muffled murmur of genteel conversation from the conference hall not far away. Still, it doesn’t seem like it would warrant his confidence from before, and Jake’s mentally setting up the logistics of where to store his new rifle when Piers pulls back, lips red and wet, and panting slightly.

“Fuck my throat,” Piers says, and Jake’s brain kind of stutters to a halt.

“What?”

“I can’t sit up and reach properly, so you’re gonna have to do some of the work.” Piers flexes his hands against Jake’s grip on his wrists pointedly. “Come on, move up a bit, and fuck my throat. Unless you’re too drunk to move.”

Jake scowls at the implication, but moves to comply happily enough. “Man, that’s one way to shut you up I guess,” he says, and savors the outraged expression on Piers’ face right before he thrusts in. It’s true though, Piers with his formal uniform all disheveled and his mouth full of cock is _infinitely_ preferable to Piers mouthy and annoying with his stupid scarf and in his stupid BSAA uniform.

It probably also helps that it turns out that he apparently doesn’t have much of a gag reflex. Jake’s first few experimental thrusts are met with an eyeroll, and a narrowed gaze that says _are you kidding me_ so clearly that Jake can practically hear his stupid voice. His next thrust might or might not have been fuelled by a mild desire to see him choke on his words. Metaphorically speaking. But he doesn’t choke, and Jake bites back a curse when his thrust is met with no resistance, only hot, wet, _tight_ heat. The head of his cock hits the back of Piers’ mouth, and just slides on down into the tightness of his throat, and then Piers swallows, and Jake nearly comes right there and then.

“Fuck, you weren’t kidding, were you?” Jake says admiringly despite himself, and gets an incredibly smug look in reply.

Then Piers gets down to business, using tongue and throat against the tiny amount of leeway Jake’s grip on his hands gives him to suck Jake off like he’s gonna win a bet. Which is probably what’s going to happen, because to Jake’s mild embarrassment, he comes really fucking quickly once Piers starts deepthroating.

In his defense, he’s not _small_ or anything, and finding someone who can deepthroat a dick the size of Jake’s hasn’t exactly been a recurring happy accident.

When he comes, it’s with a hissed out “ _Fuuuck_ ” and a fast, jerky pace as he rides Piers’ throat, thrusting down and watching the way Piers just _takes_ it, unevenly dilated eyes both glazed over and spit running all over his stupid pretty-boy face. Piers swallows his come with a hum that makes Jake’s cock feel really fucking fantastic, and when Jake pulls back, he collapses next to Piers with a groan.

“Jesus, fuck.”

“Told you,” Piers says, voice smug and distractingly hoarse.

“Fuck off,” Jake replies intelligently.

Piers laughs, the sound rusty, and not just from Jake’s fucking his throat. 

Jake somehow musters the energy to turn over, and he props his head up on his hand to take in the sight of Piers actually _smiling_. He has the kind of face that looks like it falls easily into an intense frown, which matches Jake’s memories of the other times they’ve met, but it’s a pity, because Piers smiling, frown melted away, is pretty damned good looking.

“Guess my rifle’s safe, then.” Piers grins at Jake, still smiling faintly.

“We’ll see,” Jake mutters, looking away. Piers’ chuckle follows him as he wriggles down, positions himself and starts undoing the zipper of Piers’ pants. He’s actually kinda curious to see if Piers’ dick got hit with the C-Virus, and to his mild disappointment, it’s a normal cock. Nice and hard in Jake’s hand, thicker than expected, and normal as can be.

“Huh.”

“What is it?” Piers props himself up to watch, the smile fading off his face as he stares down at Jake.

“Nothing. You’re shorter than me.” Jake shrugs, and get down to business.

Above him, Piers makes an exasperated sound that shifts into a moan, and his hips shift restlessly beneath Jake’s hands as Jake licks at his cock. He tastes normal enough, and Jake’s not a huge fan of sucking dick, but the sounds that Piers makes, the way he moans Jake’s name brokenly, and the careful way his human hand is petting Jake’s head is nice enough.

Unlike Piers, Jake isn’t so well versed with the whole _cock in mouth_ thing, so he doesn’t bother to try and deep throat, just keeps his attention on the tip, and makes up for it with a hand on Piers’ shaft and the other on his balls. Still, Piers is worked up enough that he’s already leaking copious amounts of precome onto Jake’s tongue, and he sounds close.

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” Piers gasps as Jake pulls off to take a breather. “Didn’t think you’d actually- didn’t know you sucked dick,” he continues, left hand moving to scratch through Jake’s buzzcut gently.

“That’s me, full of surprises,” Jake replies as drily as he can. He glances up, realizes that Piers is keeping his other hand firmly above his head, and rolls his eyes. Pushing himself up enough to reach, he leans up and grabs Piers’ other hand, aware of the way Piers takes in a stuttered breath, and fixes his eyes on Jake’s hand where it touches his own.

“You don’t-” Piers shakes his head, and tries to pull his hand away.

“Shut up,” Jake says, and slides his mouth against Piers’ hand, tongue moving against the rough skin. There’s an odd taste to it, almost like blood, or like the promise of blood, and the scar tissue catches on Jake’s tongue, but it’s all worth it for the way Piers stiffens up, and his eyes fix on Jake’s mouth hungrily.

It’s fascinating, the differences the C-Virus has made in Piers’ arm, and Jake satisfies his morbid curiosity by tasting it, testing his teeth against the scarred skin, and flicking his tongue gently against the areas where bone pokes through, the texture there oddly smooth and tasting even more like blood. He keeps his other hand moving steadily on Piers’ cock as he plays with his hand, and when he bites down, gently, on the bend of Piers’ wrist, Piers arches up, and comes with a cry, hand clenching up in Jake’s.

Jake strokes him through it, watching the way Piers’ eyes scrunch up and his body tenses, lines visible through the thick material of his uniform.

When he’s milked the last dribble of come out, he looks down, and realizes that his hand is covered entirely in come and he’s got nothing to wipe it on.

“Ah, shit.”

Piers sits up groggily, still panting, and follows Jake’s gaze.

“Oh. Right.”

Jake moves to wipe it on Piers’ uniform, but stops at the glare he gets.

“What? I’m not walking out with jizz on my hand, gross.” Jake protests, gesturing pointedly with his hand.

“And I’m not walking out in front of my superiors with that on my uniform!” Piers snaps back, scowling.

“Yeah yeah, whatever.” Jake flops onto his back, careful to hold his hand up and away so it doesn’t drip onto him. “Get me some tissues or something, it’s your jizz, take some fucking responsibility.”

“I think I saw…” Piers rolls to a standing position, and disappears out of Jake’s view. He hears him moving around the coat-room, and then he’s back, with tissues magically scrounged up from somewhere that he’s using to wipe his face off. He then hands the tissues off to Jake, who uses it to wipe the come off his hand with a grimace.

“Okay, new plan. I’m gonna find a toilet, get the smell of come off my hands, and then back to the bar for more whiskey. You in?” Jake struggles to stand up, leaning heavily on the wall as he goes. He’s pretty sure his hand’s leaving come stains on the wall, since the tissue wasn’t exactly the cleanest, but he’s never gonna be back here, so fuck it.

“I should…probably get back to m—” Piers cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Captain Redfield is probably wondering where I am.”

“Woof,” Jake says, raising his eyebrows. There’s no bite to his bark, though, and Piers seems to know it, because he only gives a hollow chuckle, and goes to slide under Jake’s right arm, supporting him up.

“I’ll give you a hand to the bathroom, come on.”

Jake snorts, pushing himself upright and shoving Piers away. “Go back to your captain, puppy. I’m not that drunk.”

Piers looks uncertain, like he’s about to insist on helping Jake all the way to the bathroom and to hold his dick for him while he pees or something, but Jake pushes past him firmly, ignoring the flash of hurt that crosses Piers’ face.

He waits till he’s further down the corridor before turning back. Piers is still standing in the middle of the coat-room, watching after Jake with an inscrutable frown.

“Hey,” Jake calls out. He continues, before Piers can open his stupid mouth. “Once you’re done playing fetch. I’ll be back here. Bring your own bottle.”

Turning back, he heads back out to the bar. From behind, he can hear a soft snort, and then an even softer chuckle.

Not that Jake cares or anything.


End file.
